


Nights in Chemistry

by OranisAlpine



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OranisAlpine/pseuds/OranisAlpine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, beat up by his rugby team, falls to the need and rescue of Professor Sherlock Holmes, the chemistry teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nights in Chemistry

**Author's Note:**

> This work is not tagged with Underage, and though there is mention of John and another teacher (spoilers!) so it could be counted as underage. Putting this here just in case, though the relationship is in minor detail.

John curled on the cement, trying as he could to evade the kicks that were aimed at him from the mob of other rugby players surrounding him. Though as he tried, he failed in succeeding, being pelted in return. The team captain had never liked him from the start, and he was the smallest player of the whole team, six inches shorter than all the other boys. He was the runt, and because of that, he was the punching bag. 

It had happened before, the getting beat up thing. Only before, it had only been a few stray punches after he missed a goal or tripped in a game. This was worse. Much worse. Now he was on the ground, the entire team joining in, majority of their thoughts along the lines of serious maiming. 

A crack sounded, and it became apparent to John that one of his ribs had shattered, pain shooting thorough his side. Hoping the victory would make the team let up, but no such reassurance was given as the kicks continued. They now were aimed primarily at his head and legs. Shoes with metal tipped spikes drove into him, the cleats driving into the clothing, ripping it apart. 

Though John was on his side, he kept his eyes closed shut, not wanting to see the damage being inflicted upon him. Hoping it would dull the pain; he kept it up, staring into the back of his eyelids. 

After the kicking had let up, he opened his eyes just a crack. Luck at all of the team letting him go was replaced with sickening laughter from the boys around him as a knife was pulled from one of the boys. John could bear his silence no longer as he struggled under the weight of another player who was assigned to pin him down. 

Pressure released around his ankles and it became apparent that some of the players had begun to untie his own cleats, removing his socks as well. Confusion clouded his mind as he begun to question their actions, but as he felt the metal spikes drive into the arches of his feet, everything became clear. His track pants were rolled up, and the knife was taken. Thin slivers of crimson poured out as the head of the team drove the knife deeper with every cut.

His feet now in a pool of blood, the team seemed satisfied, and simply went back to pelting him with kicks. Every once and a while, some one would roll him over and take a few blows to Johns face, his nose taking the most of it. Someone decided to fit his bleeding feet back into his cleats, the blood drying inside the fabric, making them painful if he were to try to remove them. 

Fifteen entire minutes in total passed during the injury of John Watson. Through out the entire time, not a word was uttered from the youngest member of the team, now curled in an ever-growing pool of blood. 

The team snickered as they left, not one of them turning over a shoulder to check if the one from their own team was even going to live. 

John lay there, the sun setting behind him, sky growing darker with every minute. Faith fading with every quavering breath he managed to take, John was nearly ready to forfeit life all together. Seventeen and he was ready to leave. 

There. Something as there. Footsteps. Someone was there. Only two feet. One person was there. Steps getting louder. Someone was coming to him. Only two clicks, heel – toe, not the drumming of cleats. Someone was coming to save him.

A mere whisper escaped his lips as he lay in the gravel. The figure that had been passing, stopped, and turned in his direction. John coughed, the sound pitiful and pathetic. The figure approached, John could barely able to focus on the tall slim man whom approached him. He could sense the man was wearing a dark coat, long, past his knees. Black curls framed the mans face, and his eyes were made of pale glass. He had cheekbones as sharp as the glass his eyes were created from, and slender fingers that unbuttoned his coat quickly and efficiently. 

John, wrapped in the black coat and lifted into the air by the man whose wiry frame prove to be remarkably strong, was carried back into the gates of the school. The man held John, letting him place his head in the crook between his neck and shoulder. John inhaled, taking in the scent of the man. He smelled faintly of sweat, fire, and honey. Something else left a chemical twang, but that too was unknown to the blond seventeen year old. 

John could sense light as he was carried down a dimly illuminated corridor in the school, though John could not tell which. They turned corners, the man whispering into Johns ear, his voice a soothing baritone that rang in Johns ears, making him relax and calm down. Hey, the voice told him, everything’s going to be okay. It’s all going to work out. You’re going to be fine. When that voice was heard, everything was fine. Soothing words flowed over him, but none more soothing as I’ve got you. Right here in my arms, I’ve got you. 

Keys clinked, and a door creaked open, the man entering with John still in his arms. They approached a table, and the man bent to lay John on the table, John reluctant to leave the heat and scent of his rescuer. He lay back nonetheless, his back arching in pain as the coldness of the table quickly penetrated his clothes. 

The man noticed, and he picked up John, spread his coat down under, and set John back down. John could now feel how soft the coat was under him. Inhaling, he relaxed again, the scent washing over him, dulling the initial pain. 

The man bent over John, looking him in the eyes. This eye contact remained as the man began to speak, his voice flowing over John once more. “What is your name?” the man asked, and John sputtered in reply, barely making out the name John Watson, before starting to cough violently. “Shhh… it’s alright John. Everything is going to be alright. John. John.” he whispered. Something like pleasure washed over John as the man above him whispered his name, repeating it over and over, whispering into Johns ears, making him sigh with the new feeling. Fingers ran through Johns hair, the pleasure increasing. 

“John,” the man began, trailing over the blood soaked through his shirt, “I need to take your shirt off, because only then can I help you.” John nodded, and the man took the base of the fabric of his jersey, and slowly began lifting it, revealing his wounds. Having to look away for a moment, the man swallowed, not prepared for the gore revealed. He listed the jersey up and over John’s head, removing it all together. “John, don’t look down,” the man stated, yet John caught a glance anyways. 

His stomach turned as he saw the black and purple blotches that plastered his chest. The spikes of the cleats had caught his skin and ripped it away, leaving deep gashes, now crusted with black blood, though some were still oozing blood or pus. All kicks were visible, and a few times the man had to keep from retching. John lay back and tried to bear the pain as the man took a wet cloth and began wiping some of the blood away. The warm water seeped into his cuts, stinging the worst where they were still bleeding. 

“Shhh, John it’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’ve got you right here.” The words were like anesthetic to John, dulling all pain. “John,” the voice sounded again, and John opened his eyes a sliver for a moment. “Can you roll over onto your chest? I need to get to your back,” 

“Yes,” came a feeble reply. The blond boy attempted to move, but strength had left him, and he was left with nothing. Strong hands caught him, soft, gentle hands. Ones that were skilled, and yet so unknown to the pleasure they caused to the boy whom they were holding. John sighed as the man adjusted the coat beneath him. 

Hands ran over his back, and John couldn’t help but moan in pain. Pressure was put to his cracked rib, and he panted in the pain. “What is wrong?” a voice asked urgently. “Where does it hurt?”

“Rib. Broken.” 

The man rolled him to his side, and began assessing how bad the break was.

“Cracked. Not broken, lung not punctured. Stay away from activity that will lead to strenuous breathing for about a week or so, then if it still is really bad, we can get someone to look at it.” He looked down at John.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Who are you?”

The man paused and looked at John with calmness in his eyes, one could mistake it for love. “Sherlock Holmes, Professor Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes, why would you help me?”

“Because when I was your age, I was in your place.”

“You were?” John felt confused, but looked hopeful.

“Yes,” the professor looked down, remembering with sorrow, “the same thing that happened to you happened to me.”

John paused, thinking about the parallels that could run between the two. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Who came for you?”

Silence settled around the man standing and the boy on the table. 

“No one.” came a whispered reply.

“Pardon?”

“No one. No one came for me. I lay there the whole night, freezing in a pool of my own blood and vomit. No one found me until the next day.”

There was no response to be given to this newfound knowledge and John could do no more than lie back on his stomach, giving Sherlock access to his back. Sherlock went back to cleaning blood off of his back, his fingers trailing over bare flesh, John’s eyes closed with the sensation. 

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Where are we?”

“Chemistry lab.”

“Why?”

“It is mine. I teach here, I am the only one who puts in to use.”

Holmes continued to clean, until he paused at the waistband of the boy’s track pants. He slipped under one finger, testing the elasticity of he waistband. Looking confused, he asked John to roll over, helping him when he fumbled. 

“John?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Where did these bruises on your hips come from?”

John paused, hesitating to answer. “From the kicks, sir.”

“Then why are they partially healed and all the wrong shape? The ones from the cleats are ovals with cuts on one side from the spikes. These are small and thin. They are clustered in groups of… five.”

John made no reply. 

“John?” No reply came. “John, is there something you want to tell me? Is there something I should know?”

“No, sir.” came a reply, the voice cold and one of an outsider.

“John, it’s okay. If you want to have sex with other boys, that’s okay, it’s who you are. I just want to make sure you are being safe and you do know what some of the consequences are if you aren’t safe. I know that sometimes you boys don’t like to be safe because you think it gives you some sort of connection by going straight in, but you really need to-”

“I did not have sex with a boy, and I’m not gay.”

“Pardon?”

“I did not have sex with a boy, and I’m not gay.”

“Yes, I got that part. But there is evidence that you were having sex with someone, and that the person was behind you, thrusting into you. Therefore, the person must be male. It’s obvious.” John cringed at his words, bracing himself for what was inevitably coming. “John, I will ask you once more, is there something I do not know that you wish to tell me?”

“It was not my choice.”

“Not your choice? Are you saying that it was rape?”

“It was not my choice, he just wanted dominance.”

“John, whom are we talking about?” This was met with lack of eye contact and no words, until John spoke minutes after, with Sherlock waiting the entire time.

“Sometimes… Professor Lestrade… uses me… for his… desires…”

Sherlock paused, thinking. Everything was coming at him too quickly, yet it was simple enough to keep up with the facts. “Lestrade… the English teacher?”

John swallowed. “Yes.”

“How did this begin?”

“How?”

“When. When did this begin?”

“When did he start… using me?”

“When did he take interest in you?”

John paused, thinking. “Nine months ago we met. One month after, he began taking interest in me. I became his teachers assistant, and that led to me staying late in his classroom. One night he made his move, and at first…”

At John pausing, Sherlock urged him to continue, the details of this now very intriguing. “Continue, John.”

“Well, at first I was scared. I didn’t know what he was going to do. Then, it became obvious that all he wanted was… sex.”

“And you let him take you…?”

“…yes” John whispered, shame in his voice.

“Why? Why would you let him do this? You are underage, so it could in fact count as rape. Why not press charges?”

“Because I didn’t want him to get caught.”

“But he used you. Isn’t that reason enough? Why not let him be caught?”

“Because I wanted it to continue.”

“Wanted what to continue?”

“Sex.”

“Why?”

“I enjoyed it. It was easy sex, a reliable place to go if all you wanted was to get drunk and be taken.”

“You were drunk?”

“A few times.”

“Was Lestrade?”

“More times than me.”

“Well… there’s nothing I can do about that now. Your cleats on the other hand, appear to be another matter that may require my attention now a bit more than your overactive sex life with a man twice your age. For now, let’s just take your cleats off.”

Sherlock began to get John to sit upright, his feet over a bucket of hot water and disinfectant placed there by the professor moments before. Sherlock brought over a stool to place the bucket on, letting John’s cleats be submerged in the translucent solution. John tensed in pain as the solution seeped through the material of his cleats, reaching the knife cuts. 

Sherlock began undoing the laces, taking them out of the shoes and laying them off to the side. He began pulling on the tongue of the shoes, trying to remove them with out ripping off skin and causing unnecessary bleeding. The severity of John’s condition became apparent when Sherlock managed to pry one cleat off of his foot. The stench of blood was overwhelming, and John screamed in pain as his unsheathed foot hit the disinfectant. 

He lurched forward, bringing his foot up out of the water, his knee hitting his nose. John cringed as the blood began to flow down his face. Sighing, Sherlock took a clean cloth, wet from the sink, and began to wipe off John’s face.

With eyes a combination of fear and anxiety, he gazed up at the professor and he began to notice how Holmes’s eyes softened when he was concentrating on his work. John recognized the way he would look at his face, a certain sorrow that was evident in his expression. 

John had seen this before, but only on his sister’s face. He had seen it when she had to say goodbye to her first serious girlfriend when his family was moving. He noticed how she looked sorrowful, and yet there was so much more than that. The most prominent being longing, but the longing that was more powerful only because it was now forbidden. He remembered how his sister hugged her one last time, and how they had kissed each other, so much between them. The love and loss expressed, words unneeded. 

John sat on the table remembering his sister whom he had now not heard from in three years, as she left when he was in 7th grade. He remembered his sister kissing the girl she loved, and he stared back at Sherlock. 

He took it all in, his sea glass eyes and ebony hair in curls. All at once, tears began streaming down is face, and he choked back as much as he could, not wanting to make a fuss. Sherlock took John in his arms and held him as the blond boy shook with tears. 

“I- I’m so sorry…” John choked.

“No. You have no reason to be sorry.”

“I’m sorry I ever let him think that he could use me in that way…”

“Why are you sorry to me?” Sherlock questioned, looking into John’s blue eyes.

“Because I never realized…” 

“Never realized what?”

John thought of the way his sister loved the girl, and how she would look at her, like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. He gazed at Sherlock with eyes likewise, and all at once, he was tilting his head to one side and leaning closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes closed partially and leaned in as well. Their lips met, and only hesitating for a moment before deepening so their tongues could intertwine. John took Sherlock’s hair in his fingers to get Sherlock’s tongue further into his mouth, and he leaned further into John, pressing him back against his coat that lay on the table. 

Being on top gave Sherlock full dominance in the situation, tonguing John full on, John moaning beneath him. The one below ran his hands over the back of the professors shirt, taunt over his wry frame. 

Sherlock pulled away, gasping for breath. His pupils were dilated and his breath fast and deep. “John,” he panted. John tried to steal more tongue, but in failing, he succumbed to listening to the man on top of him. “John, what did you never realize?”

John paused, eyes locked with the man. “That I never really wanted him.”

“What do you want now?”

“You.”

And they leaned back to their original positions, John wanting nothing more than for Sherlock to take him, and Sherlock wanting nothing less than to fulfill those needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, this may have a sequel if I do in fact ever get around to writing it. We'll wait to see about that...


End file.
